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In military garb, and sudden arms,
Up starts Old Britain; crosiers; crosiers are laid by;
Trade wields the sword, and Agriculture leaves
Her half-turn'd furrow: other harvests fire
A nobler av'rice, av’rice of renown!
And laurels are the growth of ev'ry field.
In distant courts is our commotion felt;
And less like gods sit monarchs on their thrones. 140
What arm can want or sinews or success,
Which, lifted from an honest heart, descends
With all the weight of British wrath to cleave
The Papal mitre, or the Gallic chain,
At ey’ry stroke, and save a sinking land ?

Or death or victory must be resolv'd;
To dream of mercy, O how tamel how mad !
Where, o'er black deeds, the crucifix display'd
Fools think heav'n purchas'd by the blood they shed;
By giving, not supporting, pains and death!

iyo Nor simple death! where they the greatest saints Who most subdue all tenderness of heart; Students in torture ! where, in zeal to him, Whose darling title is The Prince of Peace. 'The best turn ruthless butchers for our sakes; To save us in a world they recommend, And yet fcibear, themselves with earth content: What modesty !---such virtues Rome adorn! And chiefly those who Rome's first honours wear, Wliose name from Jesus, and whose aits from hell!


And shall a Pope-bred princeling crawl ashore, 161
Replete with venom, guiltless of a sting,
And whistlecut-throats, with those swords that scrap'd
Their barren rocks for wretched sustenance,
To cut his passage to the British throne ?
One that has suck'd in malice with his milk,
Malice to Britain, Liberty, and Truth?
Less savage was his brother-robber's nurse,
The howling nurse of plund'ring Romulus,
Ere yet far worse than Pagan harbour'd there.

Hail to the brave! be Britain Britain still;
'Britain! high favour'd of indulgent Heav'n!
Nature's anointed Empress of the deep!
The nurse of merchants, who can purchase crowns 1
Supreme in commerce! that exub'rant source
Of wealth, the nerve of war; of wealth, the blood,
The circling current in a nation's veins,
To set high bloom on the fair face of Peace!
This once so celebrated seat of pow'r,
From which escap'd the mighty Cæsar triumph'd!
Of Gallic lilies this eternal blast!

181 This terror of Armadus! this true bolt Ethereal-temper'd, to repress the vain Salmonean thunders from the Papal chair! This small isle wide-realm’d monarchs eye with awe! Which says to their ambition's foaming waves, " Thus far, nor farther!"---Let her hold, in life, Nought dear disjoin'd from freedom and renown;

Renown, our ancestors' great legacy,
To be transmitted to their latest sons.

By thoughts inglorious, and un-British deeds,
Their cancell'd will is impiously profan'd,
Inhumanly disturb'd their sacred dust.

'Their sacred dust with recent laurels crown,
By your own valour won. This sacred isle,
Cut from the Continent, that world of slaves;
This temple built by Heav'n's peculiar care,
In a recess from the contagious world,
With ocean pour'd around it for its guard,
And dedicated, long, to Liberty,

That health, that strength, that bloom of civil life!
This temple of still more divine; of faith
Sisted from errors, purify'd by flames,
Like gold, to take anew Truth's heav'nly stamp,
And (rising both in lustre and in weight)
With her bless'd Master's unmaim'd image shine;
Why should she longer droop? why longer act
As an accomplice with the plots of Rome ?
Why longer lend an edge to Bourbon's sword,
And give him leave, among his dastard troops,
To muster that strong succour, Albion's crimes ?
Send his self-impotent ambition aid,
And crown the conquest of her fiercest foes ?
Where are her foes most fatal ? blushing Truth,
- In her friends' vices,"--with a sigh replies.
Empire on Virtue's rock unshaken stands;



Flux, as the billows, when in vice dissolv'd.
If Heav'n reclaims us by the scourge of war,
What thanks are due to Paris and Madrid ?
Would they a revolution ? --- Aid their aim.
But be the revolution---in our hearts!

Wouldst thou (whose hand is at the helm) the bark,
The shaken bark of Britain, should outride
The present blast, and ev'ry future storm ?
Give it that ballast which alone has weight
With him whom wind, and waves, and war obey.
Persist. Are others subtle ? thou be wise:
Above the Florentine's court-science raise;
Stand forth a patriot of the moral world;
The pattern, and the patron, of the just: 230
Thus strengthen Britain's military strength;
Give its own terror to the sword she draws.
Ask you,“What mean I?"---The most obvious truth;
Armies and Aeets alone re'er won the day.
When our proud arms are once disarm’d, disarm'd
of aid from him by whom the mighty fall;
Of aid from him by whom the feeble stand;
Who takes away the keenest edge of battle,
Or gives the sword commission to destroy;
Who blasts, or bids the martial laurei bloom;--- 240
Emasculated, then, most manly might;
Or, tho' the might remains, it nought avails :
Then wither'd Weakness foils the sinewy arm
Of man's meridian and high-hearted pow'r:

Our naval thunders, and our tented fields
With travellid banners fanning southern climes,
What do they? This; and more what can they do?
When heap'd the measure of a kingdom's crimes,
The prince most dauntless, the first plume of war,
By such bold inroads into foreign lands,

Such elongation of our armaments,
But stretches out the guilty nation's neck,
While Heav'n commands her executioner,
Some less abandon'd nation to discharge
Her full-ripe vengeance in a final blow,
And tell the world, “Not strong in human strength;
" And that the proudest empire holds of Heav'n.”

O Britain! often rescu'd, often crown'd,
Beyond thy merit or most sanguine hopes,
With all that's great in war or sweet in peace! 263
Know from what source thy signal blessings flow.
Tho' bless'd with spirits ardent in the field,
Tho'cover'd various oceans with thy feets,
Tho' fenc'd with rocks, and moated by the main,
Thy trust repose in a far stronger guard;
In him, who thee, tho' naked, could defend;
Tho' weak, could strengthen; ruin'd, could restore.

How oft' to tell what arm defends thine isle,
To guard ber welfare, and yet check her pride,
Have the winds snatch'd the victory from War? 270
Or rather won the day, when War despair'd ?
How oft has providential succour aw'd,

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